Books: The Elusive Pimpernel
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Baroness Emmuska Orczy [Full name] >> The Elusive Pimpernel
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He paused a moment, distinctly pleased with his peroration, satisfied that
his voice had been without a tremor and his face impassive, and
wondering what effect this somewhat lengthy preamble had upon Sir
Percy, who through it all had remained singularly quiet. Chauvelin was
preparing himself for the next effect which he hoped to produce, and was
vaguely seeking for the best words with which to fully express his
meaning, when he was suddenly startled by a sound as unexpected as it
was disconcerting.
It was the sound of a loud and prolonged snore. He pushed the candle
aside, which somewhat obstructed his line of vision, and casting a rapid
glance at the enemy, with whose life he was toying even as a cat doth
with that of a mouse, he saw that the aforesaid mouse was calmly and
unmistakably asleep.
An impatient oath escaped Chauvelin's lips, and he brought his fist
heavily down on the table, making the metal candlesticks rattle and
causing Sir Percy to open one sleepy eye.
"A thousand pardons, sir," said Blakeney with a slight yawn. "I am so
demmed fatigued, and your preface was unduly long. ... Beastly bad
form, I know, going to sleep during a sermon ... but I haven't had a wink
of sleep all day. ... I pray you to excuse me ..."
"Will you condescend to listen, Sir Percy?" queried Chauvelin
peremptorily, "or shall I call the guard and give up all thoughts of
treating with you?"
"Just whichever you demmed well prefer, sir," rejoined Blakeney
impatiently.
And once more stretching out his long limbs, he buried his hands in the
pockets of his breeches and apparently prepared himself for another quiet
sleep. Chauvelin looked at him for a moment, vaguely wondering what to
do next. He felt strangely irritated at what he firmly believed was mere
affectation on Blakeney's part, and although he was burning with
impatience to place the terms of the proposed bargain before this man,
yet he would have preferred to be interrogated, to deliver his "either-or"
with becoming sternness and decision, rather than to take the initiative in
this discussion, where he should have been calm and indifferent, whilst
his enemy should have been nervous and disturbed.
Sir Percy's attitude had disconcerted him, a touch of the grotesque had
been given to what should have been a tense moment, and it was terribly
galling to the pride of the ex-diplomatist that with this elusive enemy and
in spite of his own preparedness for any eventuality, it was invariably the
unforeseen that happened.
After a moment's reflection, however, he decided upon a fresh course of
action. He rose and crossed the room, keeping as much as possible an
eye upon Sir Percy, but the latter sat placid and dormant and evidently in
no hurry to move. Chauvelin having reached the door, opened it
noiselessly, and to the sergeant in command of his bodyguard who stood
at attention outside, he whispered hurriedly:
"The prisoner from No. 6. ... Let two of the men bring her hither back to
me at once."
Chapter XXVI : The Terms of the Bargain
Less than three minutes later, there came to Chauvelin's expectant ears
the soft sound made by a woman's skirts against the stone floor. During
those three minutes, which had seemed an eternity to his impatience, he
had sat silently watching the slumber--affected or real--of his enemy.
Directly he heard the word: "Halt!" outside the door, he jumped to his
feet. The next moment Marguerite had entered the room.
Hardly had her foot crossed the threshold than Sir Percy rose, quietly and
without haste but evidently fully awake, and turning towards her, made
her a low obeisance.
She, poor woman, had of course caught sight of him at once. His
presence here, Chauvelin's demand for her reappearance, the soldiers in a
small compact group outside the door, all these were unmistakable
proofs that the awful cataclysm had at last occurred.
The Scarlet Pimpernel, Percy Blakeney, her husband, was in the hands of
the Terrorists of France, and though face to face with her now, with an
open window close to him, and an apparently helpless enemy under his
hand, he could not--owing to the fiendish measures taken by Chauvelin--
raise a finger to save himself and her.
Mercifully for her, nature--in the face of this appalling tragedy --deprived
her of the full measure of her senses. She could move and speak and see,
she could hear and in a measure understand what was said, but she was
really an automaton or a sleep-walker, moving and speaking mechanically
and without due comprehension.
Possibly, if she had then and there fully realized all that the future meant,
she would have gone mad with the horror of it all.
"Lady Blakeney," began Chauvelin after he had quickly dismissed the
soldiers from the room, "when you and I parted from one another just
now, I had no idea that I should so soon have the pleasure of a personal
conversation with Sir Percy. ... There is no occasion yet, believe me, for
sorrow or fear. ... Another twenty-four hours at most, and you will be on
board the 'Day-Dream' outward bound for England. Sir Percy himself
might perhaps accompany you; he does not desire that you should
journey to Paris, and I may safely say, that in his mind, he has already
accepted certain little conditions which I have been forced to impose
upon him ere I sign the order for your absolute release."
"Conditions?" she repeated vaguely and stupidly, looking in
bewilderment from one to the other.
"You are tired, m'dear," said Sir Percy quietly, "will you not sit down?"
He held the chair gallantly for her. She tried to read his face, but could
not catch even a flash from beneath the heavy lids which obstinately
veiled his eyes.
"Oh! it is a mere matter of exchanging signatures," continued Chauvelin
in response to her inquiring glance and toying with the papers which were
scattered on the table. "Here you see is the order to allow Sir Percy
Blakeney and his wife, nee Marguerite St. Just, to quit the town of
Boulogne unmolested."
He held a paper out towards Marguerite, inviting her to look at it. She
caught sight of an official-looking document, bearing the motto and seal
of the Republic of France, and of her own name and Percy's written
thereon in full.
"It is perfectly en regle, I assure you," continued Chauvelin, "and only
awaits my signature."
He now took up another paper which looked like a long closely-written
letter. Marguerite watched his every movement, for instinct told her that
the supreme moment had come. There was a look of almost superhuman
cruelty and malice in the little Frenchman's eyes as he fixed them on the
impassive figure of Sir Percy, the while with slightly trembling hands he
fingered that piece of paper and smoothed out its creases with loving
care.
"I am quite prepared to sign the order for your release, Lady Blakeney,"
he said, keeping his gaze still keenly fixed upon Sir Percy. "When it is
signed you will understand that our measures against the citizens of
Boulogne will no longer hold good, and that on the contrary, the general
amnesty and free pardon will come into force."
"Yes, I understand that," she replied.
"And all that will come to pass, Lady Blakeney, the moment Sir Percy
will write me in his own hand a letter, in accordance with the draft which
I have prepared, and sign it with his name.
"Shall I read it to you?" he asked.
"If you please."
"You will see how simple it all is. ... A mere matter of form. ... I pray you
do not look upon it with terror, but only as the prelude to that general
amnesty and free pardon, which I feel sure will satisfy the philanthropic
heart of the noble Scarlet Pimpernel, since three score at least of the
inhabitants of Boulogne will owe their life and freedom to him."
"I am listening, Monsieur," she said calmly.
"As I have already had the honour of explaining, this little document is in
the form of a letter addressed personally to me and of course in French,"
he said finally, and then he looked down on the paper and began to read:
Citizen Chauvelin--
In consideration of a further sum of one million francs and on the
understanding that this ridiculous charge brought against me of
conspiring against the Republic of France is immediately withdrawn, and
I am allowed to return to England unmolested, I am quite prepared to
acquaint you with the names and whereabouts of certain persons who
under the guise of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel are even now
conspiring to free the woman Marie Antoinette and her son from prison
and to place the latter upon the throne of France. You are quite well
aware that under the pretence of being the leader of a gang of English
adventurers, who never did the Republic of France and her people any
real harm, I have actually been the means of unmasking many a royalist
plot before you, and of bringing many persistent conspirators to the
guillotine. I am surprised that you should cavil at the price I am asking
this time for the very important information with which I am able to
furnish you, whilst you have often paid me similar sums for work which
was a great deal less difficult to do. In order to serve your government
effectually, both in England and in France, I must have a sufficiency of
money, to enable me to live in a costly style befitting a gentleman of my
rank. Were I to alter my mode of life I could not continue to mix in that
same social milieu to which all my friends belong and wherein, as you are
well aware, most of the royalist plots are hatched.
Trusting therefore to receive a favourable reply to my just demands
within the next twenty-four hours, whereupon the names in question shall
be furnished you forthwith,
I have the honour to remain, Citizen,
Your humble and obedient servant,
When he had finished reading, Chauvelin quietly folded the paper up
again, and then only did he look at the man and the woman before him.
Marguerite sat very erect, her head thrown back, her face very pale and
her hands tightly clutched in her lap. She had not stirred whilst Chauvelin
read out the infamous document, with which he desired to brand a brave
man with the ineradicable stigma of dishonour and of shame. After she
heard the first words, she looked up swiftly and questioningly at her
husband, but he stood at some little distance from her, right out of the
flickering circle of yellowish light made by the burning tallow-candle. He
was as rigid as a statue, standing in his usual attitude with legs apart and
hands buried in his breeches pockets.
She could not see his face.
Whatever she may have felt with regard to the letter, as the meaning of it
gradually penetrated into her brain, she was, of course, convinced of one
thing, and that was that never for a moment would Percy dream of
purchasing his life or even hers at such a price. But she would have liked
some sign from him, some look by which she could be guided as to her
immediate conduct: as, however, he gave neither look nor sign, she
preferred to assume an attitude of silent contempt.
But even before Chauvelin had had time to look from one face to the
other, a prolonged and merry laugh echoed across the squalid room.
Sir Percy, with head thrown back, was laughing whole-heartedly.
"A magnificent epistle, sir," he said gaily, "Lud love you, where did you
wield the pen so gracefully? ... I vow that if I signed this interesting
document no one will believe I could have expressed myself with perfect
ease .. and in French too ..."
"Nay, Sir Percy," rejoined Chauvelin drily, "I have thought of all that, and
lest in the future there should be any doubt as to whether your own hand
had or had not penned the whole of this letter, I also make it a condition
that you write out every word of it yourself, and sign it here in this very
room, in the presence of Lady Blakeney, of myself, of my colleagues and
of at least half a dozen other persons whom I will select."
"It is indeed admirably thought out, Monsieur," rejoined Sir Percy, "and
what is to become of the charming epistle, may I ask, after I have written
and signed it? ... Pardon my curiosity. ... I take a natural interest in the
matter ... and truly your ingenuity passes belief ..."
"Oh! the fate of this letter will be as simple as was the writing thereof. ...
A copy of it will be published in our "Gazette de Paris" as a bait for
enterprising English journalists. ... They will not be backward in getting
hold of so much interesting matter. ... Can you not see the attractive
headlines in 'The London Gazette,' Sir Percy? 'The League of the Scarlet
Pimpernel unmasked! A gigantic hoax! The origin of the Blakeney
millions!' ... I believe that journalism in England has reached a high
standard of excellence ... and even the 'Gazette de Paris' is greatly read in
certain towns of your charming country. ... His Royal Highness the
Prince of Wales, and various other influential gentlemen in London, will,
on the other hand, be granted a private view of the original through the
kind offices of certain devoted friends whom we possess in England. ... I
don't think that you need have any fear, Sir Percy, that your caligraphy
will sink into oblivion. It will be our business to see that it obtains the full
measure of publicity which it deserves ..."
He paused a moment, then his manner suddenly changed: the sarcastic
tone died out of his voice, and there came back into his face that look of
hatred and cruelty which Blakeney's persiflage had always the power to
evoke.
"You may rest assured of one thing, Sir Percy," he said with a harsh
laugh, "that enough mud will be thrown at that erstwhile glorious Scarlet
Pimpernel ... some of it will be bound to stick ..."
"Nay, Monsieur ... er ... Chaubertin," quoth Blakeney lightly, "I have no
doubt that you and your colleagues are past masters in the graceful art of
mud-throwing. ... But pardon me ... er .... I was interrupting you. ...
Continue, Monsieur ... continue, I pray. 'Pon my honour, the matter is
vastly diverting."
"Nay, sir, after the publication of this diverting epistle, meseems your
honour will ceased to be a marketable commodity."
"Undoubtedly, sir," rejoined Sir Percy, apparently quite unruffled,
"pardon a slip of the tongue ... we are so much the creatures of habit. ...
As you were saying ...?"
"I have but little more to say, sir. ... But lest there should even now be
lurking in your mind a vague hope that, having written this letter, you
could easily in the future deny its authorship, let me tell you this: my
measures are well taken, there will be witnesses to your writing of it. ...
You will sit here in this room, unfettered, uncoerced in any way, and the
money spoken of in the letter will be handed over to you by my
colleague, after a few suitable words spoken by him, and you will take
the money from him, Sir Percy ... and the witnesses will see you take it
after having seen you write the letter ... they will understand that you are
being PAID by the French government for giving information anent
royalist plots in this country and in England ... they will understand that
your identity as the leader of that so-called band is not only known to me
and to my colleague, but that it also covers your real character and
profession as the paid spy of France."
"Marvellous, I call it ... demmed marvellous," quoth Sir Percy blandly.
Chauvelin had paused, half-choked by his own emotion, his hatred and
prospective revenge. He passed his handkerchief over his forehead, which
was streaming with perspiration.
"Warm work, this sort of thing ... eh ... Monsieur ... er ... Chaubertin? ..."
queried his imperturbable enemy.
Marguerite said nothing; the whole thing was too horrible for words, but
she kept her large eyes fixed upon her husband's face ... waiting for that
look, that sign from him which would have eased the agonizing anxiety in
her heart, and which never came.
With a great effort now, Chauvelin pulled himself together and, though
his voice still trembled, he managed to speak with a certain amount of
calm:
"Probably, Sir Percy, you know," he said, "that throughout the whole of
France we are inaugurating a series of national fetes, in honour of the
new religion which the people are about to adopt. ... Demoiselle Desiree
Candeille, whom you know, will at these festivals impersonate the
Goddess of Reason, the only deity whom we admit now in France. ... She
has been specially chosen for this honour, owing to the services which
she has rendered us recently ... and as Boulogne happens to be the lucky
city in which we have succeeded in bringing the Scarlet Pimpernel to
justice, the national fete will begin within these city walls, with
Demoiselle Candeille as the thrice-honoured goddess."
"And you will be very merry here in Boulogne, I dare swear ..."
"Aye, merry, sir," said Chauvelin with an involuntary and savage snarl, as
he placed a long claw-like finger upon the momentous paper before him,
"merry, for we here in Boulogne will see that which will fill the heart of
every patriot in France with gladness. ... Nay! 'twas not the death of the
Scarlet Pimpernel we wanted ... not the noble martyrdom of England's
chosen hero ... but his humiliation and defeat ... derision and scorn ...
contumely and contempt. You asked me airily just now, Sir Percy, how I
proposed to accomplish this object ... Well! you know it now--by forcing
you ... aye, forcing--to write and sign a letter and to take money from my
hands which will brand you forever as a liar and informer, and cover you
with the thick and slimy mud of irreclaimable infamy ..."
"Lud! sir," said Sir Percy pleasantly, "what a wonderful command you
have of our language. ... I wish I could speak French half as well ..."
Marguerite had risen like an automaton from her chair. She felt that she
could no longer sit still, she wanted to scream out at the top of her voice,
all the horror she felt for this dastardly plot, which surely must have had
its origin in the brain of devils. She could not understand Percy. This was
one of those awful moments, which she had been destined to experience
once or twice before, when the whole personality of her husband seemed
to become shadowy before her, to slip, as it were, past her
comprehension, leaving her indescribably lonely and wretched, trusting
yet terrified.
She thought that long ere this he would have flung back every insult in
his opponent's teeth; she did not know what inducements Chauvelin had
held out in exchange for the infamous letter, what threats he had used.
That her own life and freedom were at stake, was, of course, evident, but
she cared nothing for life, and he should know that certainly she would
care still less if such a price had to be paid for it.
She longed to tell him all that was in her heart, longed to tell him how
little she valued her life, how highly she prized his honour! but how could
she, before this fiend who snarled and sneered in his anticipated triumph,
and surely, surely Percy knew!
And knowing all that, why did he not speak? Why did he not tear that
infamous paper from out that devil's hands and fling it in his face? Yet,
though her loving ear caught every intonation of her husband's voice, she
could not detect the slightest harshness in his airy laugh; his tone was
perfectly natural and he seemed to be, indeed, just as he appeared--vastly
amused.
Then she thought that perhaps he would wish her to go now, that he felt
desire to be alone with this man, who had outraged him in everything that
he held most holy and most dear, his honour and his wife ... that perhaps,
knowing that his own temper was no longer under control, he did not
wish her to witness the rough and ready chastisement which he was
intending to meet out to this dastardly intriguer.
Yes! that was it no doubt! Herein she could not be mistaken; she knew
his fastidious notions of what was due and proper in the presence of a
woman, and that even at a moment like this, he would wish the manners
of London drawing-rooms to govern his every action.
Therefore she rose to go, and as she did so, once more tried to read the
expression in his face ... to guess what was passing in his mind.
"Nay, Madam," he said, whilst he bowed gracefully before her, "I fear me
this lengthy conversation hath somewhat fatigued you. ... This merry jest
'twixt my engaging friend and myself should not have been prolonged so
far into the night. ... Monsieur, I pray you, will you not give orders that
her ladyship be escorted back to her room?"
He was still standing outside the circle of light, and Marguerite
instinctively went up to him. For this one second she was oblivious of
Chauvelin's presence, she forgot her well-schooled pride, her firm
determination to be silent and to be brave: she could not longer restrain
the wild beatings of her heart, the agony of her soul, and with sudden
impulse she murmured in a voice broken with intense love and subdued,
passionate appeal:
"Percy!"
He drew back a step further into the gloom: this made her realize the
mistake she had made in allowing her husband's most bitter enemy to get
this brief glimpse into her soul. Chauvelin's thin lips curled with
satisfaction, the brief glimpse had been sufficient for him, the rapidly
whispered name, the broken accent had told him what he had not known
hitherto: namely, that between this man and woman there was a bond far
more powerful that that which usually existed between husband and wife,
and merely made up of chivalry on the one side and trustful reliance on
the other.
Marguerite having realized her mistake, ashamed of having betrayed her
feelings even for a moment, threw back her proud head and gave her
exultant foe a look of defiance and of scorn. He responded with one of
pity, not altogether unmixed with deference. There was something almost
unearthly and sublime in this beautiful woman's agonizing despair.
He lowered his head and made her a deep obeisance, lest she should see
the satisfaction and triumph which shone through his pity.
As usual Sir Percy remained quite imperturbable, and now it was he,
who, with characteristic impudence, touched the hand-bell on the table:
"Excuse this intrusion, Monsieur," he said lightly, "her ladyship is
overfatigued and would be best in her room."
Marguerite threw him a grateful look. After all she was only a woman
and was afraid of breaking down. In her mind there was no issue to the
present deadlock save in death. For this she was prepared and had but
one great hope that she could lie in her husband's arms just once again
before she died. Now, since she could not speak to him, scarcely dared to
look into the loved face, she was quite ready to go.
In answer to the bell, the soldier had entered.
"If Lady Blakeney desires to go ..." said Chauvelin.
She nodded and Chauvelin gave the necessary orders: two soldiers stood
at attention ready to escort Marguerite back to her prison cell. As she
went towards the door she came to within a couple of steps from where
her husband was standing, bowing to her as she passed. She stretched out
an icy cold hand towards him, and he, in the most approved London
fashion, with the courtly grace of a perfect English gentleman, took the
little hand in his and stooping very low kissed the delicate finger-tips.
Then only did she notice that the strong, nervy hand which held hers
trembled perceptibly, and that his lips--which for an instant rested on her
fingers--were burning hot.
Chapter XXVII : The Decision
Once more the two men were alone.
As far as Chauvelin was concerned he felt that everything was not yet
settled, and until a moment ago he had been in doubt as to whether Sir
Percy would accept the infamous conditions which had been put before
him, or allow his pride and temper to get the better of him and throw the
deadly insults back into his adversary's teeth.
But now a new secret had been revealed to the astute diplomatist. A
name, softly murmured by a broken-hearted woman, had told him a tale
of love and passion, which he had not even suspected before.
Since he had made this discovery he knew that the ultimate issue was no
longer in doubt. Sir Percy Blakeney, the bold adventurer, ever ready for a
gamble where lives were at stake, might have demurred before he
subscribed to his own dishonour, in order to save his wife from
humiliation and the shame of the terrible fate that had been mapped out
for her. But the same man passionately in love with such a woman as
Marguerite Blakeney would count the world well lost for her sake.
One sudden fear alone had shot through Chauvelin's heart when he stood
face to face with the two people whom he had so deeply and cruelly
wronged, and that was that Blakeney, throwing aside all thought of the
scores of innocent lives that were at stake, might forget everything, risk
everything, dare everything, in order to get his wife away there and then.
For the space of a few seconds Chauvelin had felt that his own life was in
jeopardy, and that the Scarlet Pimpernel would indeed make a desperate
effort to save himself and his wife. But the fear was short-lived:
Marguerite--as he had well foreseen--would never save herself at the
expense of others, and she was tied! tied! tied! That was his triumph and
his joy!
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